


Stay Frosty (Royal Milk Tea)

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Series: Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara and Frisk tag team the world, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, post post pacifist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: You don’t even know what you are anymore. That’s nothing new. It is also, by your estimations, the very least of your current worries.No one else is agreeing with you, but that hardly makes you wrong.





	Stay Frosty (Royal Milk Tea)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheElusiveOllie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveOllie/gifts).



> Ironically I started writing this at the beginning of October and I guess Toby just has good fucking timing! Thanks Toby!
> 
> For Zero, always. Life without you would be an impossible feat.

* * *

 

**But what good is it to teach a child to count, if you don’t show him he counts for something?**

 

* * *

 

“I wish to attend.”

“We have already made our decision clear, my child,” Toriel responds without even glancing up from the piles of paperwork spread across the table. You’ve already peeked at the pages multiple times, however, the immense amount of legal jargon coating the page in 6.5 point text means nothing to you. “And it is no. Your father and I agree; you are not ready for such duties.”

You maintain a smile, slowly flexing your fingers beneath the table. You’re not ready- a fact, not an assumption. It’s quite possible that you’ll never be ready. The very idea of it is enough to turn your non-existent blood cold… however.

“And yet, Frisk is?”

“Frisk has a much greater understanding of human social cues than we do. Modern social cues.” She adds, smiling when your mouth shuts with an audible click of teeth. “It is still a very large undertaking, yes. However, they shall not be alone. I shall be with them. Frisk will be-”

“Extremely discomfited and put upon.” You interject, leaning forward in your seat. “You realize, of course, that they do not like to speak. They will refuse to use sign language in front of humans. They’ll freeze up.”

“Chara.” Toriel sighs. You’re not finished.

“You cannot be there for them all the time; cannot assist them with  _ everything.  _ The media would have a field day.”

“My child, please-”

"They would be profiled as a political puppet. The media would no longer take their words seriously. Your  _ parenting  _ will once again come under question-”

She finally looks up at you, eyes narrowed and voice sharp. “Chara Dreemurr, that is  _ enough _ .”

Slowly, you bite the inside of your cheek- hard enough that you should taste copper, but all that comes instead is- chalk. Toriel, in the meantime, has not moved. She’s not about to. You’re being paranoid.

And it was your fault in the first place. You bullied her.

You might not be human anymore, but you’re selfish all the same.

Eventually, Toriel’s features relax. She reaches across the table, laying a white paw down in front of you; an invitation for contact that you’re not going to take. Not with white grit stuck between your teeth and coating your tongue. You still remember, what your own blood tastes like.

In a way, you miss it.

“Please understand; this is not an attempt to punish you. In many ways, the Surface is as new to you now as it is to us.” She peers down the bridge of her nose, tone taking on a gently teasing air. “You are not so big that your mother cannot worry for you.”

She’s worried- because she cares about you. That’s all it is; the reason for her negatory response to your requests. A decision made by...by a mom, not a Queen.

It’s still difficult to accept sometimes, that the mother you had shared with Asriel and the woman who had-- she’s still the same person. Despite everything.

Hesitating, your lips part silently. It’s tempting to make an admission; reason with all the facts. Why you  _ have  _ to go, even when you don’t want to. Even when you’re not ready. If it were really that simple, surely she realizes that you wouldn’t be following it up.

“But Frisk is-”

Toriel shakes her head, cutting your words short with a single motion. She smiles. “Try to have some faith in them. Frisk is a very capable child; they will make it through.”

Any temptation you may have felt dissipates immediately. You smile back.

“Oh yes, very capable.” You agree, voice sickly sweet. “We all know who to call, the next time we wish to drag someone back from the dead.”

Toriel stands up.

The next five seconds pass very quickly. You feel- your body recoil. Hear, somewhat distantly, the sound of your chair crashing to the ground, knocked over in your rush to get away. You  _ see  _ the Queen from the opposite side of the room, her face frozen in shock and dismay.

Back pressed up against the wall, you watch her watch you. Silence. It’s a thick blanket coating your entire being, squeezing. It could kill you. Your m-the Queen aborts her motion, dropping back into her seat with a heavy finality.

You didn’t mean it. It wasn’t- it wasn’t intentional. Just reflexive. You didn’t-

“...I am sorry, Chara.” Any words you could say in turn are ash on your tongue. “I did not intend to alarm you, however…”

She trails off, troubled. It’s- satisfying, to some extent. Watching her struggle to defend Frisk from that. To justify what they did. Because it wasn’t justified. Regardless of how much Frisk needed them, it would never be justified.

Chara’s not the only one who understands the choice they made for what it truly is- unforgivable.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion later,” She suggests. “Once we have both had some time to clear our minds.”

In other words, you’re dismissed.

She has enough to deal with without your-  _ you _ , on top of it.

“Yes ma’am.” She probably attempts to say something more, the sound of her calling ringing in your ears as you go- but it doesn’t matter. You’re not listening. Why bother when she’ll have to say is another, more creative variation of no?

At least, she will once you’ve curbed your tongue. Reigned in your temper. Apologized- for what? Unlike her, you actually told the truth.

Frisk is leaning against the wall of the campervan when you exit, unflinching as the door slams shut behind you. It’s left to rattle on its frame as you walk away, the soft scuff of another pair of shoes against the ground joining your own.

After ten weeks, you know the layout of the camp intimately; more than well enough to avoid the busier thoroughfares for this time of day. Even then, there’s still plenty of monsters crossing your path. Groups of children dragging their feet on the way to school, guards on patrol. More off to unknown destinations; to eat, perhaps. To work.

The large majority acknowledge the two of you with a smile and a wave. Some even bow, stopping short wherever they’re standing and causing some accidents when the monsters behind them fail to notice. You leave any forms of recognition or concern to Frisk. Personally, even that is too much, right now.

The eastern edge of the encampment you’ve all been calling home is now one, long strip of construction sites- monsters working alongside military approved laborers to put up the frameworks of a dozen multi-story apartments. Just the first of many meant to permanently house monster’s rapidly growing population. Even with the constant, gentle reminders for people to consider the limitations of their current living situation, monsters were still celebrating their newfound freedom as they saw fit.

By procreating, to be precise. A lot.

Ugh. You don’t want to think about this.

Darting through a construction yard as quickly as you dare, it’s almost refreshing to hear the aggravated voice of a human yelling after you both. It’s all you need for a burst of adrenaline to run faster, darting out into the grassy fields beyond. Like your life depends on it. Like things are that simple. Like the scariest things are still those that you could run from.

That was a joke. Running never stopped anything from catching up.

You run faster, Frisk on your heels. Away from the construction yards, up the grassy inclines that scale upwards to the very edge of the forest; the true beginning of Mt Ebott. It’s there that you stop.

You don’t have to. You know (and Frisk knows) that you could keep going. Up the mountain. Into a cave. Down a hole, to the RUINS of a world where nobody lives, anymore. Where no one would find you. You could keep going. You know you could.

You think about it every day.

“No, again.” You announce, falling back onto the grass. The greenery isn’t enough to stop it hurting when your body hits the ground, but that’s part of the fun.

 

If you had any interest in lifting your head, you could see the entire valley, from here. The construction sites, the camp- the military checkpoints, usually hidden beyond the horizon. The single, winding road that leads out of camp, right back to humanity.

All of it. You don’t hate it, but you’re not a fan.

“I heard.” Frisk responds, sitting down beside you. If they’re expecting an apology, they don’t say so- which is fine, since none is forthcoming. Still, you steal a glance at their expression as they settle down, just in case.

Their hair is a mess. A light breeze isn’t helping matters, catching strands from the tangled mop and letting them drift over Frisk’s eyes- irritating you to no end. There’s a smudge of dirt on their cheek, another on their nose. The grass stains and fur stuck to their clothing gives away precisely what they were up to all morning; tussling with the Canine Unit, even though the two of you have tutoring in global politics all morning.

Which you’re also skipping, but that’s not the point. This is the kid who’s supposed to be  _ better  _ than you. The true Savior. A modern-day Future of Humans and Monsters. According to everyone else, they’re better than you.

They’re  _ supposed  _ to be  _ better  _ than you.

“She’s hiding something.” A scowl tugs at your lips- out here, where there’s no one else to see it. The urge to pinch and scratch at the insides of your wrists is difficult to ignore. If you did, could you turn yourself to dust?

Sitting up, you tear at the grass around you, instead. It’s not nearly as satisfying, but it’s a far safer compromise for a body that’s not really yours...in addition to keeping the peace with the person next to you.

Frisk leans forward, watching your hands with a fixation such idle carnage doesn’t really deserve. They don’t respond, but they’re listening. You know they are. Never speaking more than a word themself, they’re always just- waiting. For you to explain. To expand on your thoughts.

Another thing that irritates you to no end; this unquestioned expectation that you’ll respond to their every, silent cue. Worst still- you do. Every time.

Not today. They can sit there till they rot, for all you care. Sit in the grass and die of starvation, or dehydration, since they can’t even give you the common decency of a response. A hum, even. A grunt. A look in your direction.

You pull a clump of grass up with one, satisfying twist, roots and all.

Time keeps passing by, just like that. This close to the treeline, you still have some shade- to protect your skin from sunburns you don’t seem to get, anymore. One of several changes that comes with a body that isn’t human. No burns, no blood. Scraps and bruises simply don’t exist, anymore- a graze on your knee nothing more than a dusting (ha ha) of white upon your skin. Even a papercut left little more than a few, semi-transparent grains that blew away with the softest exhale; less mess than correcting a mistake with an eraser.

Going through each day was remarkably less terrifying than you’d initially expected; so certain that one day, you’d trip over. Clip the edge of a doorway as you walked through- something like that. Something stupid to put on the urn containing your dust.

You’re still relatively hardy. You understand now, at least, why Asriel was capable of roughhousing on occasion, how Kid can trip over a dozen times a day and still be fine. The ground wasn’t capable of harmful intent. Doorways and paper? Also safe, it seems.

The only danger you truly had to be mindful of was… caving. To urges. It doesn’t matter if you could before. Doesn’t matter if your arms are still littered with the history of crimes… though even those were faded in places. Doesn’t matter if it’s all too clean, for your liking. Too unbroken.

Hate kills.

Ironic, really. The power to extinguish yourself in an instant is finally within your reach- right when you’ve lost all right to act on it.

You hope Frisk is feeling a sudden, inexplicable wave of guilt.

“You could ask, you know.” They look at your face, finally. You frown back. “ _ What could she be hiding, Chara?  _ See how simple that is? Or perhaps,  _ go on, Chara. I’m listening.  _ You could sign it. Just- look at me, even.”

They’re still looking at you now, brow creasing as their lips part, ready to speak. Nothing happens.

They raise their hands soon after, looking- lost, almost. Laughably. Still, nothing happens. It’s always nothing.

“Forget it.” You break eye contact, gazing down at the camp. At the group of tents to the lower right, where you should both be right now. “How long until they send He Who Smells of Week Old Hot Dog Water to chastise us for skipping class, you think?”

“Anyone I know?” A loud, exasperated groan fills the air. It’s coming from you. “C’mon kid, gotta give me the deets. ‘Specially if your opinion of this guy is a little...ruff.”

“If I tell you, will you cease dogging my footsteps?” You tilt your head back- and there he is, of course. A raggedy sack of bone slouched up against the nearest tree. He grins at you- looks at you, with a smile that is his permanently affixed expression. Either way, you’d like him to  _ stop. _

“Not my fault. After your uh, first- stint? I’m a professional  _ Chara _ taker. People call me when they realize your bark is just as bad as your bite.” He shrugs, eyelights drifting to Frisk. “How they doin’?”

**Not good.** Frisk signs back promptly, ignoring your accusing look.  **They’re super mad.**

“I see. You’ll speak with  _ him _ , but I am left to converse with a Frisk-shaped brick wall.” You point at them, then to Sans. “I denounce you both. Shortcut into the middle of the Pacific.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I do not.”

Sans whistles, exchanging a look with Frisk. Then he shrugs once more, offering them a hand. “Suit yourself. C’mon kiddo- your mom says no more skipping.”

Frisk makes a face, but they don’t protest, dusting off their pants as they make to follow him behind the tree. Pausing, for a moment.

“Sorry.” They say to you. Then they’re gone.

They both are.

And you?

You have to laugh. Staring at the tree they disappeared behind, you laugh. You’re still laughing when you stand up- and laughing, when you punch the tree  **hard** , because you can't hurt yourself, but you can still hurt  _ everything else _ , and you laugh.

“I hate you.” You giggle at no one. “I hate you so much.”

No one answers.

 

* * *

 

Three days after you began assisting Asgore with his garden, you realized that hoping for it to remain undisturbed during the castle’s construction (slated to occur after everything else the community required) was foolish. Still, it was something to do; something you couldn’t even deny that you enjoyed, as equally at peace with tending to the plants on your own as you were with others- for the most part. Your willingness to hold conversations at length was markedly limited.

Asgore had even offered to section off an area just for you; a space to be populated and landscaped as you saw fit. You’d accepted immediately, much to his delight- though you’re… not sure, yet, what you’ll make of it. Pouring over garden magazines hadn’t helped. There’s plenty that you like, but what’s the point of having  _ your own garden  _ if you simply copy it out of a book?

You did, however, buy a bird-of-paradise. Three of them. Not because they’re a particular favorite of yours, but for the challenge they offered. Completely unsuited to this climate- and another four years to go, before they’ll begin to bloom. It’s a challenge.

To live long enough to see that happen.

It took weeks for the military to clear them, but they’re yours now, for better or worse. It’s something you can look forward to.

How nice it would be, if deciding what you want was always that simple.

“Yo, highness!” An excited holler rings out from behind you. Immediately, you throw out an arm.

Kid runs straight into it, instead of pitching headfirst into the roses you’re tending to. You suppose you should be more concerned about the monster than the plants- it’s fine. Flowers can’t hate anyone, even if they’ve just been crushed beyond repair.

“Woah! Thanks, dude!” Kid bounces back with a brief headbutt of thanks to your elbow- which,  by contrast, is absolutely capable of hatred. Every hateful bone in your body was capable of dusting a child without a second thought.

Was, capable. Who knows, anymore.

“Hey, hey! Is it true Frisk’s going away next week? To a pizza summons?”

“Peace summit.” You correct, letting your arm drop. “It’s called a peace summit.”

“Wooaaaah….” Kid leans in, eyes round(er) with wonder. “Is that why they can’t hang out anymore? The peace summit? Man, I just got a sock it ball, too!”

“Soccer ball.”

“Yeah! They were gonna teach me n’ Rocky how to play! You know, the game? Sockit.”

“Soccer.” They aren’t even trying, are they.

“That one!” They slump momentarily- then perk up, staring at you with a glimmer of hope. You don’t like it. “Do you know how to play? You could teach us!”

Exhaling sharply, you turn, placing your (Asgore’s spare, even if you’re the only one who uses it) watering can on the ground-- before you give into the urge to throw it.

“Am I Frisk?”

“Huh? No dude, you’re Chara!” They laugh, wiggling from side to side. “Did you get confused? It’s okay if you did; I used to, all the time! You look  _ exactly  _ the same, so-”

“So I’m not Frisk,” You interrupt impatiently, crossing your arms. “But because Frisk is otherwise occupied,  _ I’ll do _ , is that it?”

That wipes the smile off their face.

“Wh-no! That’s not it! I just- I figured you were lonely.” They rush it out, like some guilty little secret. “Because Frisk is so busy. You’re always gardening on your own- which is cool! But it probably gets boring sometimes-”

“Soccer is boring.” You say, tone flat. Kid deflates a little- and continues to deflate, the longer you continue. “I can’t think of a more boring game. All you do is kick a ball, it’s pointless. I see no reason to play such a  _ boring game-  _ nor do I have any interest in teaching you. If Frisk said they’d do it, then bother them- instead of trying to hand off their promises to someone else.”

To you.

“Wow, dude.” Kid steps away from you, expression… Asriel used to give you that exact, same look. When you first came to the Underground.When you refused to do something stupid, or engage in an activity. More often than not, that look was quickly accompanied by tears.

Kid seems to know better than to try their luck with that- good for them. Otherwise, you really would elbow them in the face. Then again-

Maybe they should cry.

“Frisk was right. You’re really mean when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Leave.” You snap. Turning back to the roses is the only thing you can think to do before you  _ give in and punch them in their idiot mouth.  _ “Go play with your stupid ball. I’m not interested.”

“Whatever, dude.” Kid says. They sound more annoyed than sad, walking away from you without another word- fine. Good. If they think you owe them an apology, they’ll stay away longer.

Longer still, once they realize no such apology is forthcoming.

And that’s good. You’re not going to fill your days with whatever activities Frisk has allowed to fall by the wayside. You have gardens to tend to, studies to complete. You don’t need anything else to occupy yourself.  
  


….

After staring at the same rosebush for ten minutes, you decide it’s time for lunch. It’s still relatively early (or perhaps late?); the foot traffic throughout the camp sparse. Everyone has something to do, still. Everyone’s busy.

You don’t want lunch anymore. Still, you keep walking, eyes drifting over your surroundings for something that could catch your attention for more than a second or two, letting your feet lead you aimlessly in whichever direction you happen to be facing.

It’s the sort of thing Frisk used to do, when you first began traveling in the Underground. Just keep walking, head in the clouds, until they came across something new. They barely ever paid attention to where they were going, always far too preoccupied with-

 

With talking to you.

 

If you think about them hard enough, you can almost pretend you still feel them. Somewhere to your left. Busy, and bored, and tired- and in your head, you can almost pretend that you feel them perking up as they notice you, like you’re leaning over their shoulder.

Pretending is foolish. Like your mind hasn’t been empty for almost three months now; it’s just you, Chara. Just you. One day of sharing mind and SOUL should not make that feel wrong, regardless of how many times that day had been repeated.

You shouldn’t feel this empty all the time.

“NGAAAAAAHHH!!!” Probably shouldn’t throw yourself flat on the ground, either, but instinct is almost as ferocious a beast as the figure that sails straight over your head, crashing into the nearest tent. Several loud cracks in quick succession tell you everything; the tent never stood a chance.

“Sorry, sorry!” Undyne yells. You pick yourself up off the ground before she has a chance to focus on you again, dusting off your clothes as one Captain of the Guard apologizes to a very distressed family of Froggits. “I’ll replace that- and that. Uh, that too??? Just take a list to the western guardpost, they’ll fix you up.”

Distinctly ruffled, Undyne walks away from the chaos, grinning at you like all of this was exactly to plan.

You’re absolutely certain it was not to plan.

“What’s up, highness!” Her hand slams down between your shoulder blades with a force that threatens to make you cough up your spine. “Nice reflexes! Where you been hiding those, huh?!”

You cough in response, eyes watering. She doesn’t appear to notice.

“Whew… if only some of the Guard could move that fast, then- well, we probably wouldn’t be up here right now, so maybe not…”

Oh, please. A monster passing by rolls all six of their eyes- admittedly a far kinder gesture coming from them than yourself. The Guard was a joke; a pack of overly excitable dogs led by a somewhat competent, but equally as excitable Captain. You could run rings around them- have, on several occasions. Even if they can’t remember, it still counts.

You could still run rings around them.

“Undyne.” You say suddenly, cutting through whatever tangent she’s spiraled into.

“Shi- I mean, yeah Sorry. Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“The Royal Guard will be attending the peace summit, correct?” She blinks down at you.

“Uh,  _ duh.  _ You think I’d let your parents go anywhere without me?!” She puffs up a little, clearly proud. “We’ve been sorting out the details for WEEKS! Couple of the military folk are helping out with transport, but the rest of it? It’s all ME, KID.”

Guards. At all times, for the majority of their stay, Frisk would have guards. Escorting them to and from events, ensuring their rooms were secure- and others would have advisors, as well. People to answer for them. People who would ACT on their behalf.

“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”

“Why? You missed me?” She gives you a toothy grin, leaning in to ruffle your hair. In a rare act of self-preservation, you dodge. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Your mom’s making snail casserole? Why WOULDN’T I be there???”

“Wonderful.”

“YEAH!! Seriously though, why?” She seems...confused, all the more so when your only response is a smile. “What, you trying to pull some kind of pr- hey! Where are you going?!”

You have five hours to figure this out, if your sense of time is even remotely accurate. There is an exceptionally high chance of failure. In order to succeed, every word needs to be perfect.

Undyne, whilst inspiring, is not conducive to perfection. And so you wave a hand at her, ducking between two campervans before she decides it’s worth giving chase.

  
  


Get this right, and you’re out of here.

* * *

 


End file.
